


the only one who knows

by KelseyO



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, clarke griffin being a wreck so i don't have to be, it's mostly angst but they like ten percent work out some issues, post 3x02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5878633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You loathe me. I understand that.”</p>
<p>Clarke shakes her head and approaches her again, hitting her with the other fist this time. “I don’t loathe you, Lexa,” she mutters, venom dripping from each word. The next hit is to Lexa’s jaw. “There are no words”--another hit, and now Lexa’s lip is bleeding--“in your language, or in mine”--she keeps hitting, and Lexa still makes no attempt to defend herself--“for how I feel about you.”</p>
<p>(Post-3x02. Title from "Screen" by twenty one pilots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only one who knows

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this spontaneously in about four hours, with no beta, and mostly for myself, because I'm a slut for Clarke wrestling her demons but also really angry about death right now. This is Clarke being a wreck so I don't have to be.

_I do not know why I would go_ _  
_ _In front of you and hide my soul_ _  
_ _‘Cause you’re the only one who knows it_   
_Yeah, you’re the only one who knows it_

.

“The guards told me you didn’t sleep last night.”

Clarke didn’t even go near the bed, is the thing. Or touch the fresh clothes or (presumably) hot meal that were brought down for her, or so much as look in the general direction of the door any of the few times it opened. After they put her here, after she bloodied her knuckles against each of the four walls separating her from--well, from not being _here_ \--she sat on the floor and stared at the stone surrounding her.

Cold, silent, unforgiving. She admires it, really.

“You haven’t eaten, either.”

Maybe she’s hallucinating; maybe this is a dream. Maybe Roan gave her something to knock her out, so he could have peace for the rest of his journey to bring her to the Ice Queen, and maybe she’ll wake up any second to a dagger against her throat, and maybe then it’ll all finally be over.

(Please, _please_ let it all be over.)

“Clarke.”

She knows the name, but she doesn’t react to it. The only people who call her that are the ones she killed for.

( _They all burned on a television screen, separated from her by layers of steel and concrete, but she still heard their screams._ )

“Please.”

The stone disappears. It’s being blocked by a body about her size, ornately braided hair hiding behind robed shoulders, eyes glinting, piercing, just like a freshly sharpened sword.

Her war paint is gone now, as if that erases her sins.

( _“Please, don’t do this.”_ )

Lexa is offering her hand. It’s clean, unbruised, steady. Clarke takes it, lets Lexa slowly pull her to her feet, lets Lexa’s grip linger more than it should.

Then she yanks her own hand away, curls her fingers into a fist, and hits her as hard as she can. She hears weapons being unsheathed behind her, but Lexa raises one hand as the other covers her nose, and commands her guards to stop.

“Leave us,” she orders, her voice firm but not angry. “ _Now_.”

They stare each other down as the guards leave and the door closes heavily behind them, then Lexa examines the blood on her fingertips.

“Clarke, I know--”

She hits Lexa again and Lexa has to brace herself against the wall behind her. Clarke takes advantage and pins her against the stone, seething as her grip trembles into Lexa’s collarbone.

Lexa’s expression remains as calm as ever and something surges up from Clarke’s very core, manifests itself as a ferocious shove that sends Lexa sprawling to the floor. She recovers quickly but stays where she is, already breathing heavily.

“You loathe me. I understand that.”

Clarke shakes her head and approaches her again, hitting her with the other fist this time. “I don’t loathe you, Lexa,” she mutters, venom dripping from each word. The next hit is to Lexa’s jaw. “There are no words”--another hit, and now Lexa’s lip is bleeding--“in your language, or in mine”--she keeps hitting, and Lexa still makes no attempt to defend herself--“for how I feel about you.”

Lexa nods, nods, nods. “I know,” she says breathlessly.

“No, you _don’t_.” Clarke shoves her backwards, then again. “You made a deal with the enemy to save your people. I _killed_ \--” Her breath catches in her throat and the rest of the sentence disintegrates on her tongue. She shoves Lexa again as her eyes begin to burn. “They didn’t deserve that,” she says, hating how her voice breaks on the last word. “ _I_ didn’t deserve that.”

She has Lexa against a different wall now, and she’s pushing and pushing and pushing but also shaking and shaking and shaking and _god_ , she’s so tired, so tired. A small sob escapes her lungs and she shakes her head, takes a breath, pushes Lexa harder.

“I know,” Lexa says quietly.

Clarke’s shaking her head again. “Stop saying that,” she demands through gritted teeth. Her grip on Lexa gets tighter but she doesn’t hit, doesn’t shove, because she can feel what remaining energy she has draining out of her and she’s not sure what would happen if she let go of Lexa, even just for a second.

Lexa’s gaze doesn’t falter. “I have been Commander since I was born, Clarke. I have sacrificed, and been forced to make wretched decisions, and ended more lives than I have saved.”

Hot tears spill down Clarke’s cheeks but she can’t wipe them away, because if she stops holding on her knees might buckle, and she won’t kneel before Lexa again. Not even by accident.

“We have both killed many, and we have both saved many.”

Clarke’s bottom lip is trembling and Lexa’s getting blurrier by the second. Her legs are fighting to keep her upright.

“But I still spend every day wishing I could have saved _you_.”

She chokes on her next breath and then gasps for air, or maybe she’s just sobbing again. Her head bows without her consent and she flinches when it finds a resting place on Lexa’s chest, but she’s so _tired_ and most of her body isn’t cooperating with her anymore. Everything is too heavy and bruised and she can’t--”

A cry of frustration fills the room when she falls, but Lexa follows her down without missing a beat.

“Clarke,” she hears, and it’s soft, but she can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question. All she knows is she can’t catch her breath and her head is pounding and she regrets getting so close to Lexa, because now there are gentle hands on her shoulders and she can’t find it in herself to shrug away from them.

“I don’t…” she manages, but her throat is so thick and there’s not enough air in this room and she feels like she might vomit, if only to get all of this pressure out of her body. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Lexa doesn’t respond at first, but then slowly moves one hand along Clarke’s arm, down to her elbow and back up again. “First, you should rest.”

Clarke chokes out some vague semblance of a laugh. “I don’t know how to do that, either.”

“The bed might help.”

“I don’t want your bed,” Clarke snaps, trying her best to sound stubborn and defiant.

Lexa’s hand keeps moving, slowly down, slowly up. “Then perhaps you could just try closing your eyes.”

Clarke finally lifts her head up to look at Lexa, her own gaze bleary while Lexa’s is surprisingly open. “What if I can’t?”

“The nightmares will subside,” Lexa says quietly, after a beat. “With time.” At Clarke’s silence, she clenches her jaw and breaks eye contact. “I spend every day wishing I could have saved you, and every night dreaming of how I did not.” She swallows hard as Clarke continues to stare her down. “Does that please you?”

“No,” Clarke mutters, finally wiping the moisture from her cheeks and shifting away from Lexa, “it doesn’t.” She leans over and curls up on her side, using her arm as a pillow, but doesn’t close her eyes. “Was it worth it?”

Lexa sighs. “It is not that simple, Clarke.”

“Yes, it is. It’s a yes or no.”

“Then I suppose you would have no problem answering the same question.”

“That’s not--”

“You did what you had to do,” Lexa interrupts, “as did I.”

Clarke’s breathing is evening out, her words slowing, her eyelids getting heavier. “I only had to do it because you betrayed me. Betrayed my people. I loved you, and you didn’t…”

Her words get lost in the darkness, an abyss of screams and the scent of burning, blistering flesh and drills whining against bone--

She jerks awake already gasping for air, muscles tense and bones shaking and stomach boiling and skin damp with sweat.

“Clarke.”

The voice is so soft and unwelcome and protective and despised and she sits up to find Lexa still with her, sitting with her back against the nearest wall, watching. Clarke glances out the window, at the sun sitting low in the sky. She’s been asleep for hours.

“Have you been here this whole time?” she manages between gulps of oxygen.

Lexa doesn’t indicate one way or the other. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Clarke brings her knees to her chest and presses her palms over her eyes, trying to catch her breath.

“What do you see?”

“Everything.”

Lexa’s silent for a beat. “I can leave, if you wish.”

Clarke looks at her for a long moment, then slowly moves to lie next to her, resting her head in Lexa’s lap. “What do you see?” she mumbles before her eyes close again.

“You.”

.

_And I will hide behind my pride_ _  
_ _I don’t know why I think I can lie_ _  
_ _‘Cause there’s a screen on my chest_   
_‘Cause there’s a screen on my chest_


End file.
